What Happened to Barton
by The Cocky Undead
Summary: [Spoilers for Winter Solider] Where the hell was Barton, anyway?


**[What Happened to Barton]**

"Barton, move your ass."

Clint stirred from under the covers of his bed. He pushed himself up on one elbow, staring at his handler through bloodshot eyes and messy hair.

"I just fell asleep." He checked his watch, "Fifteen minutes ago." Clint's voice was conversational if a little hoarse, but Agent Cole knew that there was an underlining threat in his tone.

"You need to get up. Shit's been going down in Washington at SHIELD." Cole said grimly. "Now, get up."

"I'm up." Clint said, shoving off the covers and standing up. He ran a quick hand down his face, trying to rub the sleepiness from his eyes.

Within minutes, Clint was dressed and had his gear packed. He met Cole outside the seedy motel and got into the waiting black car.

Once Clint was secured inside, Cole peeled out of the parking lot.

Silence reigned in the car.

"So," Clint started. "I take it my mission here in shitty Nevada is being put on hold for the time being."

Cole was staring at the road ahead, the car's headlights the only light on the lonely road. "Yes." He answered after a few minutes.

"So, Fury needs me back at headquarters?" Clint prodded.

"No."

Clint frowned. "What? Then who? What's going on, Cole?"

Cole gave him a quick look. "Fury's dead."

Clint felt his heart freeze. "What?"

"He was shot by an unknown assassin fifteen hours ago."

Clint gave Cole an incredulous look that was laced with anger. "He was killed fifteen hours ago and no one thought to tell us?"

Cole didn't answer.

Clint barked out a fake laugh. "Are you shitting me? He was killed fifteen hours ago and _you _didn't think to tell me?"

"You were in the middle of something."

"Yeah, a shady poker game. That mission was shit and you know it. Fury is more important." Clint snapped. He swiveled in his seat, glaring at Cole.

Cole didn't look at his agent, his focus on the road.

"Dammit." Clint muttered, sitting back into his chair. "Who's running SHIELD?"

Cole gave a shrug, but didn't answer.

Clint gritted his teeth and tried again. "Where's Agent Romanoff? Or Cap?"

Cole gave him a quick look before eyeing the road again.

Clint's hands clenched into fists, and he felt his arms tense. "Where exactly are we going, Cole?" His voice suddenly soft.

Cole didn't answer, he didn't have to. Suddenly one hand was clutching a pistol and had it poked at Clint's head.

"Sorry, Barton. Pierce didn't think that you're going to cooperate and I tend to agree. You never have. Especially when it comes to Romanoff."

Clint eyed the black barrel jabbed at his face before focusing his glare at Cole. "You're planning on shooting me out here? Are you gonna dump my body somewhere in the desert and hope that the coyotes get it?"

"I don't want to kill you. You're a good agent and—," That was as far as Cole got.

Clint grabbed his gun arm, shoving it backwards. He slammed it against the two seats causing Cole to drop the pistol, not before it fired off a shot past Clint's head, shattering the window.

Clint jabbed his other hand forward, smacking Cole's face with his fist. Cole's head snapped to the side, smashing into his window.

The car swerved across the road, hitting the shoulder of the highway. At the speed they were going and the rough gravel on the shoulder, the car pitched forward flipping.

It skidded across the sand, coming to a jarring halt against a lone boulder.

Clint, hanging upside down, looked over to his companion. Cole was unconscious, blood dripping from a large gash on his head.

Clint reached down and unbuckled himself. He thudded against the roof of the car, grunting. Slowly he crawled through the broken window, wincing slightly as the broken glass cut into his palms.

Once outside, Clint stayed on his hands and knees for a moment, regaining his equilibrium. He then pushed himself up into a standing position and limped to the back of the car.

He wrenched open the back door with some difficulty and picked up his black duffel. He slung it over one shoulder, taking Cole's duffel in his free hand; when Cole woke up Clint didn't want him to have any of his gear.

He then set off at a slow pace down the highway. Cole was a problem alive, but Clint wasn't going to kill an unconscious man.

After a few minutes of semi-painful walking, Clint started to jog down the middle of the pavement. "Shiiiit," He muttered, as the movement jarred his ribs, which had been bruised only a few hours ago during his last half-finished mission. "This is not gonna be fun."

* * *

After hitching a ride with two cars and one shady van, Clint had made it back to something that resembled civilization. The tiny town had a diner, a church, and a bar, but not much else. However, Clint didn't need much.

Clint entered the diner, which was loud and busy as it was a few hours after dawn.

He claimed a seat at the counter and gave the older waitress a smile. She stopped in front of him, her notepad flipped open and ready.

"What can I get you?" She asked giving his dusty and bruised face a critical once over.

"Coffee?" Clint asked, "And could I use your phone?"

She frowned a little at the second request, but shrugged and motioned to the side of the diner where a battered phone sat on the edge of the counter.

"Thanks." Clint said, sliding off his stool and making his way to the phone.

A TV hung above him, the morning news playing, but Clint didn't pay any attention to it. He snagged the phone and tucked it under his ear.

Clint punched in the numbers and waited as it rang. A robotic voice told him the number was disconnected so Clint hung up and tried a new number.

This process went on for a few minutes until finally a female voice spoke through the speaker. "Who is this?"

"Nat?" Clint asked relief bubbling up.

"Clint, where are you?"

"Where are _you_?" Clint countered. "Cole tried to kill me. What the hell is going on?"

There was a sigh on her end. "Thank God you're okay."

"Of course I'm okay, I'm freaking Hawkeye. I don't roll over and die for just anyone." Clint said, trying to lighten the mood. He could hear the strain in Natasha's voice. "What's going on?"

"I take it you haven't seen the news." Natasha asked slowly.

"I'm the middle of the desert, hitching rides with weird trucker guys all night." Clint said. "That's a no."

"A lot of shit's happened since you left." Natasha said carefully.

"What…" Clint trailed off as the TV above him spoke out.

"_We're not sure what to make of this government leak of an organization called SHIELD." _The reporter said crisply. _"We can tell you, however, that our heroes from New York aren't what they seem on the surface. Yes, I am talking about Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton or as most people know them, the Black Widow and Hawkeye."_

Clint squeezed his eyes shut and leaned forward, hunching over the counter. "Are you serious right now?"

"Sorry." Natasha offered. "It was the only way."

"Our covers are gone." Clint said trying to process what had happened. "How…you know what, I don't wanna know right now. First I have to get to wherever the hell you are and then you're gonna explain exactly what happened."

"I can tell you it involved the Captain and a new guy named Sam." Natasha said, humor tinging her tone.

"So, what, you have a new best friend now?" Clint demanded. "Awesome. I'm gone for one week and I've been replaced with Mr. My-muscles-are-as-big-as-your-face America and some other guy named Sam."

Natasha laughed, a rare thing, even in Clint's experience. "Just come home. I'll explain it all."

"You'd better." Clint warned. "I'm not getting my information about my crumbling job from some lousy news channel in Nevada."

After exchanging locations and Natasha promising to stay put, Clint hung up and limped back to his spot at the counter.

He sat down heavily into the chair, burying his head into his hands.

"Rough night, sweetheart?" The waitress asked, sliding a cup of coffee to Clint.

Clint gave her a nod of thanks and then shrugged. "It's about usual, to be honest, but thanks for asking."

"Sure, honey." She moved on, refilling other customers' cups.

Clint sighed and took a sip of the black liquid. He knuckled his eyes and heaved a sigh. It was going to be a long day—scratch that—it was going to be a long fucking week.


End file.
